


Vivid

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Aragorn wakes up in the wrong place.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Thranduil
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	Vivid

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His head is pounding. He comes to heavy and heady—even the low candlelight that’s burned right down to its ends feels much too bright. Aragorn turns into his pillow to stifle his groan. Dizzy images slip back to him in drips and drabs—memories of last night, of the welcoming feast, of the toasts and the dancing. He remembers watching Legolas dance with an old friend and the twinkle in his eyes as he looked across at Aragorn. Aragorn had lifted his glass while Legolas and his father downed to at a time. Elrond had suggested Aragorn hold back, which would have been wiser—he hardly has Elven stamina, and the Woodland brew was very strong. But the king had poured him one glass after another, and Aragorn indulged. 

It reminds him that he isn’t at home, or even out in the wilderness where he belongs. He should be in guest quarters in King Thranduil’s keep, except the bed he lies on is much too plush, too exquisite, to be only for guests. Aragorn squints his eyes open through the half-darkness and takes in the large, grand chambers all around him.

He slowly rolls over onto his other side and freezes at what he sees. He’s in bed with an elf, facing a long, lean back half draped in white-gold hair. For a moment, Aragorn’s chest clenches—he thinks he’s slept with _Legolas_—but then he notices the subtle differences. This man’s rich smell isn’t _quite_ the same. His hair is a little paler, his shoulders a little broader. Aragorn lifts up ever so carefully, needing to see the sleeping elf’s face, but sitting up reveals a view of the autumn crown resting on the nightstand. It’s bracketed by two half-full bottles of wine and a plethora of empty glasses.

Aragorn stiffens. He makes a conscious effort not to jump to conclusions. He lifts the silken sheets and peers below, but he’s utterly naked, devoid of even socks. Thranduil is much the same. Aragorn tries not to let his eyes linger on Thranduil’s taut rear and muscular thighs.

He drops the sheets again, breathing hard. Legolas will kill him. Elrond will kill him. Or at least, they’ll lecture him endlessly, and they’ll be right for it. He’ll never tell either one, and he doesn’t _think_ Thranduil would brag about taking a mortal Man to bed, but there’s no way to be certain.

The least he can do is make it back to his guest quarters before he’s missed. He shuffles towards the edge of the bed, moving like a stalking panther, staunchly trying not to make any waves. He slips into his clothes with the silence of a Ranger. He leaves his belt unfastened because he doesn’t trust himself to do it up without the buckle clicking. Then he creeps towards the door.

He’s just reached the handle when the king’s deep voice purrs behind him, “Leaving so soon, Estel?”

Aragorn tenses, caught. He steels over and turns back. Thranduil rises languidly against his headboard, lounging there with his entire chest exposed, each scrumptious line and curve fully on display. His peach-coloured skin is still flushed from drinking and excess energy, glistening in places with a touch of hard-earned sweat. Heated memories flash through Aragorn’s headache. Thranduil is an incredibly handsome man. He’s also dangerous, a notable difficulty for Aragorn’s stepfather, and his dearest friend’s father. It was inappropriate to ever cross that line. But Aragorn should’ve known that that’s precisely what happens within Thranduil’s borders. 

He answers politely, “Thank you for your hospitality, my king. But I think it is time I took my leave.”

Thranduil holds Aragorn’s gaze for a long moment, not quite frowning, not quite smirking. Then he lazily flicks his hand and sighs, “Very well. I suppose I already had my fun with you. Send in one of the guards when you leave—it matters not which one. You were quite an active lover, and it has put me in a mood to go on.”

Aragorn’s cheeks feel hot. He dips his head in a short bow and replies, “Of course, my king.” Then he swiftly exits, unsure whether or not he hopes to regain the rest of last night’s torrid memories.


End file.
